


(over the weekend) we could turn the world to gold

by riverbed



Series: seeing things you'd lost sight of [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dancing, F/F, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 08:28:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6510511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>maria and eliza goof around on a lazy day off, finding themselves heavily under the influence of vodka and french pop standards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(over the weekend) we could turn the world to gold

**Author's Note:**

> from [here](http://otpmusings.tumblr.com/post/142337386806/): disgustingly cute domestic scenes to imagine your otp in: getting slightly too drunk in the middle of the afternoon and slow dancing to dumb cheesy old music and kissing in a way that’s more laughter than actual kissing, mouths clumsy and hands gripping tight and sunlight slanting over them as they move lazily together
> 
> the title is from [run away with me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TeccAtqd5K8). highly recommended: think about maria and eliza while listening to it.
> 
> unbeta'd because i choose to blindly believe i grow from the shame of my mistakes even though i truthfully don't. hope nothing's too glaring.
> 
> this is probably a college or postcollege au. maria's just over hangin' out.

This is a damn fine Sunday afternoon, Eliza decides.

Maria’s cross-legged on her bed and she’s the prettiest thing Eliza has ever seen, eyes sort of glossy, hair frizzed out with the late-spring heat. Both of them are in some state of undress, Eliza in a light sundress, Maria in her denim cutoffs and a camisole, blue bra strap hanging down her shoulder on the left side in striking contrast to her brown skin. Her hair is coppery in the sunlight coming in through the sheer drapes, and as she passes the vodka bottle back to Eliza, scrunching up her face as she chases her shot with a swig of Sprite, Eliza wants to reach out and smooth it. But she doesn’t. They don’t really Do That. Or, she assumes, Maria doesn’t.

Taking another shot, Eliza lets it burn down her throat and distracts herself by flopping back against the pillows, feeling the music from her turntable coursing through her. It’s an old French compilation record from the 60s, one she’d found at the antique mall, bought from the kind elderly man at the booth for 50 cents. She has never heard of the singer, but her voice is velvet rubbed against the grain, dripping with sex and a rasp on her rolled Rs, whispering every heated, hurried H. Eliza feels sweat prickle her skin and restlessness sets into her muscles as she goes lightheaded.

She rises, a little too quickly, stumbles and catches herself on the bed and laughs, full of joy. Maria scoffs at her, but a smirk plays at her lips, and she takes another swig of vodka. Eliza goes over in front of the window, and her hips begin swaying of their own accord, sunshine and alcohol fuel through her blood. The lightweight fabric of her dress brushes her bare thighs as she sways, the song’s verse slow enough to justify her not really dancing, per se, but moving nonetheless. It’s too hot to dance for real, anyway; she’s content to let the twinkly piano move through her unbidden, direct her.

The song ends and she looks at Maria, whose eyes are sparkling. She smiles at her fully now, and if Eliza had to guess she’d posit that Maria had taken a couple more shots while she’d been distracted - her grin is a bit dazed. Her strap is slumped even further down her arm. Eliza feels a distant pang in her tummy, but it’s not very insistent, not an urgent demand. Maria stands up and comes to her on admittedly unsteady feet, padding barefoot on the hardwood, and Eliza looks at her toes, painted lavender. She suddenly blushes, more with the heat from the midafternoon sun and alcohol than self-consciousness, but it’s there as Maria approaches, bubbling just beneath her skin.

The record crackles back into sound suddenly, and the next song turns out to be a more upbeat ye-ye track, France Gall, Eliza thinks, and it facilitates her shuffling her feet a little, trying to chase the beat but just behind. Maria stifles a giggle, puts a hand on her hip, still a little more sober than Eliza is; she’s able to hold her liquor a bit better, has had some hard-partying nights while Eliza’s stayed in. She presses their bodies together and guides her, but Eliza steps on her toes, gasps in horror but Maria just throws her head back and laughs, curls bouncing. Eliza laughs, too, shyly dipping back into her drunken reverie, and lets her heartbeat slow down from the high, lets her body relax into the music and the softness of Maria against her. They find the beat together, and toward the end of the song the record skips a little, and when Eliza jumps at the interruption in sound she blinks her eyes open to find Maria staring at her, biting her lip, eyes wide. Her hand is still on her hip, Eliza realizes; her abdomen is pressed against Eliza’s own. Their thighs are somewhat sticky. Eliza parts her mouth but she can’t think of anything to say, so she puts her hand gently on Maria’s shoulder, runs her palm down the curve of it to play with the stretchy ribbon halfway down her arm. She studies her own skin against Maria’s, freckles dotting her upper arm, olive tone in contrast to warm brown.

Maria leans in then, eyes still sparkling, mouth still curved in a smile, and they’re both grinning by the time their lips meet, teeth knocking slightly as they fit together, and Eliza tilts her head to angle their noses right, sighs into her mouth and realizes too late how gross that is. Maria snorts, and it’s ungraceful and hasty and a _rush,_ so Eliza curls her fingertips around Maria’s toned bicep and squeezes as they kiss, giggling and breathing in the bitter on Maria’s gums, the sweet aftertaste on her breath. Maria trails her hands up her sides and it makes Eliza shiver, and she wraps one arm around Eliza's slim waist to squish them closer with the other continuing up to card through Eliza’s long, straight hair, shiny from its wash this morning. Eliza sighs again into Maria’s mouth, a happy little noise accompanying it, and Maria pulls back but not far, cupping Eliza’s face with both hands, the pads of her fingers pressing into her dimples. She rests her forehead on Maria’s, breathing fast, staring at Maria as she squeezes her eyes shut tight. Finally she opens them, dilated and bright, and Eliza feels the flush of arousal heating her skin, and it feeds off Maria’s own, their skin sharing heat as they breathe the same thick air. Neither of them break eye contact for a long while, and as dusk starts to set the hazy fading light shades them in growing shadow. The record ended some time ago ago, but Eliza doesn’t feel like breaking away to flip it over, so she doesn’t. They're still dancing, anyway, barely swaying in unison, rocking back and forth in the music of the peaceful quiet.

The afternoon had been fine, but the evening is better.


End file.
